


regrets

by orphan_account



Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 00:51:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20300749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: duff and izzy get into a fight.





	regrets

**Author's Note:**

> from a lil prompt list on tumblr-
> 
> "please don't go." and "you’re not a bad problem, you’re a good problem. not a problem, problem.” 
> 
> thought i'd put this on here too because why not <3

Duff sits at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the wall in front of him, alternating between sipping on his vodka and taking a few too-long drags on his cigarette. He’s well past drunk already, quickly tiptoeing over the line into utter oblivion but he isn’t planning on stopping anytime soon. It’s dark in the kitchen—almost completely pitch black except for what little light is seeping in from the window. He doesn’t know exactly what time it is.

Really he’s only doing this to attempt to drown out Izzy’s yelling, to distract himself… Except it isn’t working, every word only seems amplified, louder, _more painful _in his hazy mind. So he grabs the bottle, tight, and squeezes his eyes shut as he lets the rest of it trickle down his throat. He sets it down on the counter and it echoes in the now overwhelmingly quiet room.

When he opens his eyes again, everything’s spinning. Izzy’s still standing right in front of where he’s sitting, and even through his blurry, glassy vision Duff can make out the frown painted on Izzy’s lips. It’s clear as day, there’s no way he can possibly miss it.

“—a fucking problem!” He manages to just _barely _catch the end of what Izzy’s saying, and he instantly bites his lip as hard as he can but it’s not enough to keep the tears from spilling down his cheeks.

“So I’m the fucking problem, Iz?” he manages to somehow choke out, and his voice sounds like shit because of all the vodka and maybe all the crying, crushing his cigarette under the heel of his boot and earning himself yet another glare from Izzy. And then he’s throwing the empty bottle to the floor, letting it shatter into a million pieces, “Why don’t you take a look at your-fucking-_self _first? You sure as hell aren’t perfect either!”

As soon as the words leave his lips, Duff regrets ever saying them. He can hear Izzy suck in a sharp breath and the room’s way too quiet again and _fuck_, he shouldn’t have said that.

He sits there, frozen in place and desperately wishing he wasn’t as drunk as he currently is as Izzy yells, “fuck this,” and then makes a beeline for the door.

Duff tries to stand up, to chase after him, to stop him and tell him to stay but before he can even make it out of the kitchen, his stomach is lurching and his head is pounding and he doesn’t think he can keep all the alcohol down.

“Izzy, please don’t go,” Duff calls, and he _wishes wishes wishes _he wasn’t so fucking drunk. _So fucking stupid. _

The door slams, and it’s loud—loud enough that Duff can still hear it from where he’s standing, his head in the kitchen sink as he pukes up nothing but vodka.

His throat burns as he wipes his mouth and pulls a few loose strands of hair away from his face. Alcohol always hurts like a bitch coming back up and _fuck_. Why the _hell _is he still standing here when Izzy’s gone? Izzy’s gone and he fucked up, and—

———————

Duff doesn’t remember passing out on the kitchen floor, but it’s where he wakes up the next morning. Everything’s a reminder of last night—the broken glass littering the floor, the fizzled out cigarette, the silence that lingers. And Duff hates it. He _fucking _hates it.

He lets out a quiet sigh and blinks back a few tears before eventually standing up and almost tripping over his feet as he does.

Then he stumbles through the hallways, eventually managing to make it to his bedroom, the bedroom he shares with Izzy but Izzy’s not here and it’s all _his fault_, and—

Sitting on the very edge of the bed, Duff puts his head in his hands, lacing his fingers through his messy hair and he keeps them there as if he’s trying to physically hold his head together.

Deep breaths. He takes deep breaths, slow and as steady as he can make them. A few tears gather in his eyes but he’s too tired, too hungover to care.

He thinks he’s imagining it when the door’s pushed open suddenly and Izzy’s standing there in the frame, clothes wrinkled and his dark hair obscuring his expression and blurring it into something Duff can’t read.

“Izzy,” he croaks, lifting his head. Everything is a little too bright.

Izzy doesn’t look mad, Duff notices—or, he _hopes_, at least. Just… tired. He sits down without saying anything, and Duff’s too afraid to break the silence, too scared to say something first so they just sit there.

Until Izzy reaches over and drapes an arm around Duff’s shoulders, and that’s all it takes; Duff’s sobbing and he knows he won’t be able to stop.

“Hey,” Izzy mumbles, using his thumb and index finger to lift Duff’s chin so that their eyes meet. He ghosts his fingertips over the tear streaks that’ve already dried on Duff’s cheeks, “What I said last night—I didn’t mean that. You’re not a problem. Well, you’re not a bad problem, you’re a good problem. Not a problem, problem.”

All Duff can do is melt into Izzy, curling up against his side and burying his head in Izzy’s chest. Izzy pulls him closer, threads his fingers through Duff’s hair and Duff can’t help but think about how good it feels, how _right_.

“I’m sorry, too,” he whispers.


End file.
